BLACK SITE

The Dolby won't hiss, if you can find a tape
recorder to play them. The local archives
have got one where you can sit
with a pair of headphones, each muff
bigger than your fist, that make it echo
in your head as large as a warehouse.
Do you dare go in? How far can you listen
to boots being scraped through muck
and rusted bolts? What can you see now,
eyes closed, blotting out the librarian's
busy curiosity? What can you see now?
Is it the tape over his mouth? His flinches
from the crack of a belt? His eyes crushed
shut with bruises? Will you go on
or press stop? Or pause, and reflect,
get your breath and let those muscles
deflate, before pressing play? It comes
back louder and more intense. Shouting.
An earful of poison that sends speakers
whistling with screaming crackles of electricity. 
You imagine the body of a man, seventeen, 
suspended between two frames. His torso
overwritten with cuts. WHORE. You hear sobs,
Muffled begs for it to stop. Will you listen?
Or will you go on to the climax,
now you daren't believe it? Do you think
it could be true? If only you could see,
you'd know the sudden silence after barks
and whelps was death. It will not tell.
The recorder clicks. Are you disappointed?
Could you guess? Are you ready to live
with it? The uncertainty? The quiet?